


the gods have fashioned us for love

by deathsweetqueen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 19:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12217596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathsweetqueen/pseuds/deathsweetqueen
Summary: She stood in front of that mirror in large ensuite, staring at herself, like she had a thousand times over. She twisted a copper curl between a finger and tugged, liking the way it bounced back as soon as she drew her finger away. Her face was clear of make-up, but for a smattering of foundation and a little eyeliner to make those blue eyes pop. She fiddled with the strap of the white silk lingerie that Margaery had shoved into her bag with a wink and a sultry smile.She knew Jon would like it; he liked her in just about anything. And naked, well, he especially liked that.(Alternatively, in which, after eight years of love and lust and kisses and adversity and waking up in the morning together, Sansa and Jon finally tie the knot and have a great deal of fun consummating their marriage.)





	the gods have fashioned us for love

**Author's Note:**

> A Modern AU with smut dedicated to @ladyseasauvageofhousesantorini for the Jonsa Exchange on Tumblr.

It was their wedding night.

She had been told not to have too many hopes for her wedding night, considering that the wedding itself would be frantic and she would be on her feet the whole time (and those six-inch heels that Margaery had forced her into didn’t help one bit, the cow) and they would only have a few precious hours to themselves before they would wake in the morning and board a plane to Gods-know-where Jon had organised for their honeymoon, because he sure as hell wasn’t telling her anything, even if she had gotten cross and turned her head to him and she knew how much he _hated_ when she did that.

But, she couldn’t help it. That girl, that foolish, pretty girl who had wanted a glorious wedding to her Prince Charming, wanted everything to be perfect. Of course, Little Sansa had no clue about anything to do with sex, so she hadn’t actually known what happened on a wedding night, but she knew it involved something pretty to wear and kissing and lots of blushing, so she supposed it would be important.

Granted, in none of her dreams, had she imagined that Jon Snow, her big brother’s sullen, brooding friend with the big, sad eyes and curls prettier than any girl’s she had ever seen, would be that Prince Charming.

In any case, it was still her wedding night and her feet may ache something fierce, but she was determined to see it through.

There would still be something pretty to wear and there would be plenty of kissing (if she had her way, and she _always_ got her way, especially with Jon) and maybe not so much blushing, because she was no virgin and this was hardly the first time she had slept with Jon.

She stood in front of that mirror in large ensuite, staring at herself, like she had a thousand times over. She twisted a copper curl between a finger and tugged, liking the way it bounced back as soon as she drew her finger away. Her face was clear of make-up, but for a smattering of foundation and a little eyeliner to make those blue eyes pop. She fiddled with the strap of the white silk lingerie that Margaery had shoved into her bag with a wink and a sultry smile.

She knew Jon would like it; he liked her in just about anything. And naked, well, he especially liked that.

But for some reason, she wanted to draw out this moment. Yes, they had said a few words in the Sept and their hands had been bound in ribbon and afterwards, they had gone to the Godswood, because both she and Jon kept the Old Gods as well, and prayed and had risen up married. But, if she walked out of this bathroom, where Jon was waiting for her, hands in his curls, sitting on the bed and eyeing the bathroom door every two seconds (thinking that she was regretting something, because that was Jon, always able to find the touch of grey in every silver lining), she would be going out as a different woman.

Not that Sansa Snow was remarkably different from Sansa Stark, and honestly, she hadn’t given much thought to changing her name, but she failed to see how one day (no matter how big a day) could change how you feel so dramatically that it would actually change _who you are_.

_Oh, to hell with it._

She swung open the door and Jon slipped to his feet immediately. He was still wearing his white shirt, bow-tie undone and under his collar, suit jacket thrown haphazardly across a chair beside the bed. His eyes immediately wandered from her red locks (his hands twitched at his sides, as if he wanted to reach out and thread his fingers through them – not that she would’ve cared) down her bare throat to the neckline of the white silk, where the curves of her breasts were outlined oh-so beautifully.

“You look beautiful,” Jon said, roughly, shuffling on his feet.

It made her smile, how he could be so awkward around her, after dating her for almost a decade, after having sex with her countless times, but she liked it about him. There was never any lie in what he said to her, or to anyone, for that matter. He never said anything for the simple purpose of making her feel better about herself. It was what he honestly believed.

She was hardly a stranger to male appreciation. Even if she had blushed and fluttered her eyelashes and been gladdened by it in the past, time had taught her that there were men in this world who only said those sweet things to a girl to get her on her back. It was a lesson painfully learnt, but Jon had never been like that with her.  

Fifteen years old and reeling back from a traumatic incident in her relationship with Joffrey Baratheon where he’d hauled off and backhanded her right across the face at a party, Sansa had watched as her brother had launched himself at Joffrey and beaten his face into the ground until his golden hair was streaked with blood, but Jon, sixteen and anchored, had pulled Robb off Joffrey and shoved him into a chair, while making his way over to her, makeup dark, wet streaks on her cheekbone, still clutching her jaw as the sting from Joffrey’s hit faded, bruise blossoming in its wake, and led her away from the scene.

He hadn’t said a word to her, helped her into the bathroom and pressed a cool washcloth against her burning face, both from mortification and pain, and remained by her side the rest of the night, held onto her hand when Cersei Lannister-Baratheon, Joffrey’s mother, had shown up to cart her still-bleeding son to hospital and hissed her threats at Robb and her for what had happened to Joffrey (not that she had felt guilty for a second).

A few weeks later, Jon had given her that terrible wink of his (which still made her laugh now whenever he attempted it) when Joffrey had shown up, back at school, in a new car, because she may or may not have slashed his tires and dropped a giant rock through his windshield (it seemed appropriate, as Joffrey had always liked the car more than he had liked her), when it seemed that he had gotten away with everything.

A month later, Jon and her were dating, despite Robb’s grumbling which they steadfastly ignored, and life got better.

Four years later and her first year at university saw her in one of her professor’s office after a particularly disastrous final exam. Petyr Baelish, her mother’s so-called childhood best friend, promised to straighten everything out, all the while sliding his hand up her thigh. His fingers grazing the seam of her underwear had broken her out of her shock and she had tumbled from the chair, running out of the room. She had managed to tell Jon what had happened with a straight face, no tears at all, but her hands shook the whole way through and when he saw them, he simply held them in his large, warm palms and let her finish her story. When he had asked her if she wanted Baelish to hurt (and he would’ve gutted him like a pig, if she’d asked), she had shaken her head, the fear still catching in her throat (this time, for a different reason, because what if Baelish hurt Jon to get back at her?), and he held her hands tighter. He didn’t let go when she confessed to her mother what had happened and he didn’t let go when they watched Baelish be dragged out of his office by campus security.

He didn’t look at her like she was damaged or that she had asked for it. He looked at her like she was Sansa.

So, when he said she looked beautiful, she could take it to the bank, no questions asked.

Her lips twitched when she looked at him now. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” She teased, making him smile with his teeth.

His hands fidgeted at his sides, as if he wanted to reach out and hold her, but she knew he wouldn’t, so she rolled her eyes and strode over to him, barefoot (there was something about walking on this carpet without any shoes), throwing her long, pale arms around his neck.

“You linger too much,” She said, dryly, affection for him threading her voice.

His hands spanned her thin waist, thumbs jutting into her hipbone, warm through the silk. He didn’t say anything more, but he leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers gently. Sansa sighed against him and let her fingers twist in his black curls. His arms tightened around her and he pulled her close, so that her negligée and the remains of his suit were all that was left between them.

His hands dipped low, stretching out over the curve of her arse, and curled around her thighs, bringing her up against him solidly. She hooked an ankle around the small of his back and let him fist his hands in the silk, lifting her up so that she could wrap her legs around his waist.

He turned around and pressed her back onto the bed, pulling away to undo the buttons of his white shirt as he did so. Every now and then, a particular troublesome button frustrated him and his fingers slipped, unable to release it.

“Stupid, bloody-” Jon muttered, annoyed. “Piece of-”

Sansa bit back a laugh at his frown, reaching up to kiss the lines of his face, as her slim fingers replaced his and undid the button with relative skill of someone who had done it for him many times.

“Not as smooth as I wanted to be,” Jon said, gruffly, sheepishly.

Sansa’s lips twitched. “I already knew that before I married you.” She teased.

“Brat,” Jon said, affectionately, kissing her hard and finally managing to undo the buttons as he did so.

Once he had divested himself of it, Sansa pressed her warm hands against the firm, defined skin of his abdomen, making him groan where he had been pressing his mouth against her throat.

“Jon,” She sighed, arching her hips.

Her nails scraped against his scalp and he pulled away, unbuckling his belt and sliding down the zipper of his slacks. Sansa, completely done with it all, reached into his boxers and wrapped a small hand around the base of his cock.

“Fuck,” Jon cursed, his abdomen clenching. “Sansa, sweet, let me get my damn pants off first-”

“I don’t _care_ ,” Sansa insisted, sliding her heel up the back of his leg.

Jon grit his teeth, resisting the urge to thrust, shallowly, into her hand. “You’ll be death of me.” He huffed out.

Sansa snorted. “Well, if it hasn’t happened yet, I doubt it’ll happen anytime soon.”

Jon trailed a hand up her smooth, pale thigh, taking the opportunity to tug the silk over her head and off her, leaving her naked to his eyes for the first time since they had exchanged their vows under the Heart Tree. The way he looked at her was the same way he had looked at her since she was that fifteen-year-old babe in the woods – like she was the sun and stars and everything in between. It had her flushing down to her neck, even if this was hardly the first (or the fiftieth) time he had seen her unclothed. His hands snatched hers up, reminding her of how the Septon had bound their hands together with that ribbon, and he pressed his mouth against her, his grey eyes warm and fond because she was everything to him and he was everything to her.

“I love you,” Jon said, fiercely.

Sansa’s smile was ardent. “I love you too.”

Never had anything sounded sweeter.

When he slipped his hands between her thighs and found her hot, wet and tight around his fingers, he groaned.

“No knickers, really?”

Sansa smiled, coyly, up at him from under her eyelashes. “I thought they’d waste time.”

Jon chuckled. “I love the way you think.”

Sansa was about to reply with something tart, but ended up gasping when his fingers curled inside her.

“Fuck,” She cursed.

Jon smirked. “Not so fun when it’s you, is it?”

Sansa dipped her head back against the pillow, her back curving like a cat, as her hands groped at the bedsheets. He began to nudge his fingers, slowly, stroking against her insides.

“Jon.” She moaned out.

“Yes, love?”

Sansa tipped her head up, almost cross.

“Can you please just get inside me?” She demanded.

Jon smiled that half-smile of his. “Not yet.”

Sansa squirmed in displeasure when his fingers withdrew, but her head fell back against the pillow when he, instead, curled his fingers around her thighs and hiked her hips up into the air, so that he could press his mouth against where she was aching for him.

Sansa curled her fingers in his hair and tugged, as his tongue lapped at her. Cunnilingus (although she didn’t really like how scientific the word sounded for something so shameless; Jon, of course, preferred the ‘Lord’s Kiss’ because it sounded all manly and smooth) was something she had read about in Cosmopolitan, but she had never expected that a guy would actually go to the trouble of doing that with her, until Jon had insisted putting his mouth on her when they had sex for the first time. She had asked him later, after they were damp with sweat and afterglow, where he had learnt that (ignoring all that jealousy at the thought of him doing that with someone else, despite knowing his entire physical experience with the opposite sex had been with her and an ill-fated Spin-the-Bottle attempt with Alys Karstark), and Jon had shrugged, saying that it was just something he had wanted to do with her.

“What are you thinking about?” Jon asked, suddenly, pulling away from her thighs.

She smiled. “Our first time.”

Jon snorted. “Our first time was shit.”

In truth, their first time had really been nothing monumental, inelegant and raw, but for two virgins, it was to be expected. Sansa had been shy and Jon had been more than shy. While he had dreamt of her constantly, none of his dreams had matched the rosy-pink of her nipples or the taste of her cunt. No, those were best learned under his comforter, as darkness spilled from his window, and they removed all of their clothes amidst silence that felt natural.

It hadn’t been completely pain-free, and while she had been pretty wet (thanks to him spontaneously going down on her), she had been tense and it had left her sore the next day. But while it hadn’t amounted to some of their exploits once they had learnt what each other liked and didn’t like (she was pointedly thinking of that time he had pressed her up against the wall of a fitting room and put his hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t give the game away), it had been completely _theirs_ and she wouldn’t have exchanged the experience for anything else, as cliché as it sounded.

“Should I be offended?” Jon asked, dryly.

Sansa’s brow furrowed. “At what?”

“That you’re so distracted.”

Sansa pouted. “It’s our wedding night; allow me some nostalgia.”

Jon kissed her thigh. “Exactly. It’s our wedding night. You should be concentrating on more... _pleasurable_ … things.” He growled.

He pressed his mouth against the furrow between her thigh and pelvic bone, his beard scraping against her skin and leaving a pleasant sting behind, nuzzling at the red curls between her legs (that first time, he had been pleasantly surprised to find those curls much brighter than the red of her hair).

Sansa sucked in a breath. “Maybe you’re right.”

Jon smiled against her cunt. “Of course I am.”

His tongue brushed her clit and Sansa whined, bending her waist upwards.

“Jon,” She gasped out. “Don’t stop. _Please_.”

Jon hummed in agreement. He had no intention of stopping until he had his fill of her. Her taste wasn’t sweet (all those idiots who swore by the heavens that a woman’s cunt was sweet had no idea what they were talking about), but she was sharp and tart and compelling; he couldn’t get enough of her.

It wasn’t long before her thighs were shaking around his neck and the muscles of her cunt began to clench as her orgasm surged through her, spilling her slick across her thighs and his mouth (wasn’t squirting just an amazing trick for the avid cunnilingus enthusiast?).

Sansa sank back against the bedding, tossing her hair back before it began to rub unpleasantly her damp neck. She leaned down and gripped him by the shoulders, pulling him up so that his weight settled on top of her, his hands bracketing her head, her hips settling between hers.

“I want to return the favour,” Sansa said, plainly, hooking an ankle around his calf.

The heels of her palms pressed against his collarbone and shoved him back, so that she flipped them over on the bed, her knees framing his torso, hands on her hips. He looked up at her, saw the way her red hair settled against her milk-white skin. He reached up and twisted his fingers in her hair, affectionately.

“You don’t have to, you know? I’m good to go.” Jon said, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, you’re good to go? Well, that’s real romantic,” Sansa teased.

Jon rolled his eyes. “I’m not a bleedin’ poet.”

Sansa grinned. “No, you’re really not.” She softened, trailing a long finger from his hairline down to the curve of his jaw, where his beard was rough and dark. “Anyway, poets are overrated.”

There was something in her eyes, something unabashed and loving, that had Jon’s eyes softening and spanning her ribcage with his warm hands.

Sansa scrunched up her nose. “You’re distracting me.” She crossed her arms over her chest, which unfortunately did nothing but draw Jon’s gaze to the pertness of her breasts, well-framed by her arms.

She rolled her eyes and snapped her fingers in front of his face, and Jon recovered, looking her in the eye once more (not that she didn’t appreciate his attention on her breasts, but she would much rather he be focusing on something else she was going to do).

“Sorry,” He said, sheepishly.

Sansa shrugged. “You don’t have to apologise for ogling me. We’ve been dating for eight years.” She smiled, slyly. “But there’s a time and place, and right now, I have something else planned.”

She shimmied herself down the length of his body, gracefully, until she was fixing her eyes on his cock. She tipped her eyes up and looked at him, her periwinkle-blue eyes suggestive, and then dipped her mouth over the head of his cock, pursing her lips.

“Fuck!” Jon growled, lurching off the bed.

Sansa giggled to herself. She wrapped one of her hands around the base of his cock, and let her mouth slide down further, the flat of her tongue pressed against the underside of him.

“Sansa, lovely girl-” Jon gritted out, his hands curling in her hair. “Gods, you look so fucking pretty, with my cock in your mouth. That’s it, darling. Take me in.”

Sansa hummed in approval; the murmur from her throat had Jon groaning and calling her all sorts of things like _my love_ and _beautiful, filthy girl_ and _so bloody good_ and _wife_ (that one had her dipping her fingers between her thighs).

The hand that had been wrapped around his cock slipped downwards and she ran her nails against his inner thighs before pressing her fingers against his perineum. She felt his hands tightening in her hair, tugging sharply, and by the sound he made, she knew he had liked that.

“Sansa, sweet girl, I’m not going to last very long,” Jon warned.

She waggled her eyebrows up at him and scraped her teeth, lightly, across the length of him. It was all he needed to spill into her mouth, hurriedly, with a shout. She swallowed him whole and ran her thumb over her lower lip, sucking the finger inside until she was clean. She looked up at Jon, seeing him panting against the pillow.

“Fuck, you’re always so good at that, sweet.” He growled, cupping her jaw and stroking his thumb over her defined cheekbone.

She crawled over him until she was straddling him once more.

“You up for more?” Sansa asked, provocatively. “‘Cause I’m not done by a long shot.”

Jon groaned. “Again, you’ll be the death of me, I swear.”

“You love it,” Sansa taunted, affectionately. “Now, flip us over; I want you to be on top.”

Jon sighed. “So bossy.”

But he did as he was told (not that he minded much), and tugged her underneath him, her red hair splaying across the pillow. He hooked one of her thighs over his hip and touched his fingers gently against her cunt, testing to see if she was still wet, finding her slick on his fingers. Sansa arched into his touch, her eyes demanding more.

He fisted his cock, deliberately, and pressed inside her, slowly, watching her mouth part and her eyes roll back as he took her. Her nails dug into his shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped marks in his skin that were sure to bleed. He almost couldn’t bear it himself; she was so scorching-hot and wet and so pretty-pink that he almost lost it, then and there.

“Jon,” She cried out, curving her back and drawing him inside deeper.

“Sansa, fuck, you feel so good, sweet,” He groaned, nuzzling against her long, pale throat. “Like those seven heavens those fucking Septons are always going on about.”

Sansa’s laugh was rough and choked as he bottomed out and slid back inside her. “You shouldn’t say those things while we’re… you know…”

“Fucking?” A smirk played on Jon’s mouth.

Sansa glared at him.

“Come on, love, say it for me,” Jon goaded, rolling his hips.

Sansa managed to muster the strength to smack him on the back. “Yes, fucking, there, you happy, you bloody pillock.” She muttered.

Jon’s eyes were gentle as he brushed her hair away from her face, stilling in his movements. “Very.”

Sansa swallowed hard, throat thick with emotion. She curved a hand around his neck. She pulled him down to press his forehead against hers, as he rocked forwards.

“Jon,” She panted. “Please, don’t stop. I want more. Harder.”

Jon gritted his teeth and tightened his hands on her hips, beginning a new rhythm, deep and fast and rough, her arms and legs winding around him. Between their entwined bodies, he slid a hand down her sweat-damp flank, his teeth tugging at her nipples, and between her legs, thumbing her clit.

It was all she needed to start seizing around him, her thighs shaking as her hips thrust up in the air recklessly. She pulled him down, burying his face in her neck, clutching at his hair and shoulder-blades as her orgasm pitched over her, leaving her helpless to convulsions that brought him to the edge as well. He groaned her name and called her _sweet_ like he always did (she hated all the _babys_ and _angels_ and even _love_ felt too common, but _sweet_ , _sweet_ was all Jon and her and she never felt that more than in this moment, holding him close against her, content and gratified and triumphant and _his wife now_ ) against her neck, low and rough, spilling wetly inside her, and she could feel the muscles in his back tensing.

He stayed inside her for a time, before pulling out of her with a sodden sound, her thighs and his cock wet with his seed and her slick. Her thighs were still shaking, her fingers still loose and liquid, and her skin responsive, but she turned into his arms eagerly when he wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her in. His fingers stroked through her hair, soothing, until she felt those first vestiges of sleep slink towards her, laying her cheek on top of his breastbone, her hand warm on his well-defined abdomen.

Absentmindedly, she thought of those who had told her not to expect too much from their wedding night.

“Idiots,” She muttered. “They’re all idiots.”


End file.
